


bed, bath, & beyond

by disastermovie



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Relationship, Sexual Fantasy, Shameless Smut, its fine Crowley is just pining and horny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:22:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28909263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disastermovie/pseuds/disastermovie
Summary: Crowley has a self-care day.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 58





	bed, bath, & beyond

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my first [Good Omens Bingo](https://goodomensbingo.tumblr.com/) square, **scrub**. This title was originally a joke and now we're just rolling with it.

The lights are dim. Artisan scented candles line the low bamboo table at the end of the bath, casting the room in a soft orange glow. There’s enough bath bombs in the cabinet to fill a Lush warehouse, but Crowley practices some self-restraint and only uses one. It has little pieces of confetti inside and turns the water a glittery pastel pink.

Crowley slips in. He sighs, relaxing in the hot water and tilting his head back with a lazy grin. Its been _far_ too long since he indulged himself like this.

The past week has been utterly tedious. He had a meeting with Head Office on Monday, which set the tone for the rest of the week. He found a quarter on the ground on Tuesday and bent over to pick it up before remembering that he’d permanently glued it to the sidewalk three years ago. He would've gotten over it, _really_ , if it weren't for the group of teens who pointed and laughed at him. He made sure they all tripped over their shoelaces, but his pride had still taken a hit.

And while pride was a wonderful trait for a demon to have, sloth was reserved for the humans, so Crowley spent all of Wednesday causing several minor traffic jams across the West End (not that Head Office would appreciate his hard work, but that was besides the point). Thursday really topped it all off - not one, not two, but _three_ of his plants had the audacity to start _wilting_. He’d threatened the whole lot with a flamethrower for that behavior, though he was still waiting on the results.

Friday was... a reprieve from the rest of the week, actually. He and Aziraphale met in the park that afternoon, hashing out their good and bad deeds for some time, then spending the rest of it arguing about how they remembered the first production of _Hamlet_ and feeding the ducks. Well, Aziraphale fed the ducks and Crowley attempted to drown them, until Aziraphale threw bread at _him_ to get him to stop. Then they ran out of bread and started arguing about yeast, though Crowley couldn’t remember what side he was on or what their sides even were.

They’d wandered back to the book shop, stopping at a little cafe so Aziraphale could get an overpriced scone, and had tea in the back until Crowley finally went home three hours later. Aziraphale wished him a good night. He’d been smiling when he said it, his eyes crinkling at the edges. Ridiculous of him. Doesn’t he know he has dimples? Crowley had to resist the urge to cup his cheek, for Someone’s sake.

Fuck, he should’ve brought some wine. How did he forget that? He could miracle it, but even that requires energy he doesn’t have.

Well, whatever. Crowley sinks further into the water, letting it lap up to his neck, huffing through his nose. This is supposed to be a _relaxing_ bath. A “self-care” day. Mooning over that angel is not a fun endeavor. He should know; he’s been doing it for most of existence.

He still remembers standing atop the walls of Eden, watching Eve and Adam stumble their way out into the world, trying not to get eaten by a lion. He’d had no intentions when he first slithered up to Aziraphale that day. They’d seen each other wandering around paradise in the early days of creation. Aziraphale had mostly given him stern looks or speed-walked back to the eastern gate, while Crowley alternatively rolled his eyes at the angel’s attitude and appreciated his soft curls in the sunlight. He _had_ looked so beautiful in Eden, among the leaves and extinct flowers.

Then Crowley completed his first job-well-done and they were all kicked out of the garden forever. It was an overreaction if Crowley ever saw one, but he supposed it was rather in-character for Her. Wasn’t _that_ a depressing line of thought. Crowley's gone down that dark spiral billions of times before, but not today. Today is a self-care day, Someone damn it. No pity-parties allowed.

Now that he’s thinking about it, he did have some idea of _what_ he wanted on that wall. Or who, rather. He’d never actually had a conversation with Aziraphale before. They’d never been anywhere near each other before Eden and it wasn’t like Aziraphale was desperate for a chance to speak with a demon, especially not so soon after the Fall.

But Crowley had seen him. He saw plenty of things. He hadn’t run into his first mission blind. He’d scoped things out, lurking around the dark and hidden corners of paradise. He just hadn’t expected what he saw: Aziraphale, a haughty holier-than-thou angel, _caring_ about those two humans. Having chats with them. Sharing perfectly acceptable, Almighty-approved fruit. None of the other angels guarding the gates did that.

Crowley cared about them, too, of course. Yes, he’d been personally responsible for the first temptation of humanity, but damn it, if Eve hadn’t looked so _alive_ when she bit that apple. He hadn’t intended for the consequences, but the consequences happened, and Crowley is _not_ going to dwell on them.

What he keeps circling around is this: he saw the pretty, intriguing angel that he’d been ogling for all of Earth’s short existence and thought, _I’d like to have a chat with him_. And he had. And Aziraphale had humored him, before the rain fell and he lifted up his wing to keep Crowley dry. He had no reason to, but he did it anyway.

Crowley remembers the way Aziraphale looked with the rain on his face, his curls all wet, water catching on his eyelashes. He fell in love with him somewhere between then and Mesopotamia. Probably closer to Eden than Mesopotamia, embarrassing as it is. He’s tried convincing himself it wasn’t _love at first sight_ , of all things, but he’s hardly an idiot.

The water is getting lukewarm. Crowley heats it back up with a quick snap of his fingers, then pouts in his glittery-pink soup of a bath. What he wanted today was relaxation. Rest. His evening wasn’t supposed to be another night of him being a lovelorn fool and yet...

He sighs dramatically, pulling a hand out of the water to move his hair over to one shoulder. He’s been wearing it longer recently. He likes braiding it.

Aziraphale had liked yesterday’s braid. It was only a simple fishtail, but they hadn’t seen each other since before Crowley miracled his hair longer. He’d stuck to short hair for quite some time - the longest it’d been in a hundred or so years had been the tragedy of the sixties - but he just felt like a change. Aziraphale said that the braid suited him. He said that Crowley looked _nice_.

Crowley’s hair is unbraided now. His cheeks go hot as he remembers Aziraphale’s compliment. The angel hadn’t even registered what it’d done to Crowley’s composure. He thought he was about to fucking discorporate then-and-there.

Aziraphale looked nice, too. He always does, with those aforementioned curls and dimples. He shouldn't look that nice. It makes Crowley want to do stupid things, like tell him he has pretty eyes. Or talk about his feelings. Or _kiss him_ , for Heaven's sake.

Crowley would very much like to kiss Aziraphale. He'd like to do many things with Aziraphale, but they're not like that. Aziraphale doesn't look at him like he’s hung the moon or think of him in the bath at eight-thirty on a Saturday night. Crowley shouldn't linger on the impossible like this. He needs to be realistic. Sensible.

Too bad his feelings about Aziraphale are anything but that.

His mouth twists as he pulls his knees up to his chest. Ridiculous, he thinks. He’s being ridiculous. He’s perfectly capable of having a nice night in, basking in the fruits of his demonic labor. He can practice self-care. He can treat himself.

But as soon as he starts thinking of how beautiful Aziraphale is, or how much he’d like to kiss him, or how that tender ache in his chest whenever he sees him sometimes edges too close to true pain for him to handle, he forgets any of that in favor of letting his heart do somersaults over him. Sometimes - and _only_ when he’s alone - he thinks of all the other things that he’d like to do with Aziraphale, which is when certain other organs join the mix.

As if on cue, his mind offers up one of those _other things_ : Aziraphale, crowding him against the shelves in a dark corner of the bookshop, their breaths hot and heavy. His bright eyes have a sharpened gleam to them that cuts straight into Crowley's core. He cups Crowley's cheek in a soft palm. Crowley's still clothed in this fantasy (for now, at least), but his glasses are missing, so he's laid bare in all the ways that matter.

" _Crowley_ ," says dream-Aziraphale, voice laden with lust that the real Aziraphale will never have, before leaning in to pepper Crowley's neck with kisses. To latch on and suck, to bite, to leave marks. In the fantasy, Crowley moans prettily, clutching at Aziraphale's shoulder for dear life.

In real life, Crowley makes a noise like a dying animal, flushing at the image. He clutches at his knees, the usual mortification at thinking of Aziraphale that explicitly warring with his desire. It doesn't last long; his self-control is threadbare enough as it is.

He spares a thought to the real Aziraphale, probably having a cup of tea right now as he reads in the bookshop, completely unaware of Crowley's pitiful crush and the accompanying lust. He always feels a bit hesitant before he does this, fighting against the small part of him that never seemed to get the memo about him being a demon and all. That was the part that could never say no to Aziraphale. The one that did stupid things like help struggling playwrights and save some dusty old books just because Aziraphale looked at him with those big, sad eyes. Oh, he would hate to see Crowley like this.

Then Crowley spreads his legs, sticks his right hand between them, and forgets all of his misgivings.

He gasps as his fingers slide across his folds. He's already wet, the bathwater helping move things along, but he can feel his arousal grow at his touch. He can't see himself beneath the pink swirls, but he doesn't have to. He knows what he looks like. Besides - he's far more interested in the fantasy playing out in his head.

He's come up with plenty of material over the millennia. A perk of nursing a crush for so long, he supposes. His fantasies started somewhere in Mesopotamia - very simplistic, with declarations of love and unsure fumbling at their center. Since then, he's imagined Aziraphale taking him in all manner of questionable spaces and even more questionable positions. He has whole scenarios in his head, none of them feasible, but some more out-there than others. He imagines them in different roles, different _lives_ , and all the impossible ways that they could fit together. In all of them, Aziraphale loves and wants him in equal measure.

He wonders how his younger self would react to the places Crowley's mind goes. He'd be shocked, probably. He'd also be _extremely_ turned on.

Crowley is certainly getting there. He lets his eyes fall shut, touching himself as his free hand rubs at his neck, where fantasy-Aziraphale is still mouthing at. Crowley tilts his head back, gasping. " _Aziraphale_ ," he sighs, in the fantasy and in real life, their edges blending together. He drags his hand away from his neck as fantasy-Aziraphale presses up against him, chest-to-chest. Crowley, in reality, rubs at a nipple and groans.

Their clothes are the only thing keeping them apart. Sometimes, he imagines Aziraphale taking his time, slipping Crowley's clothes off like he's something precious, treating every inch of exposed skin with reverence. Other times, he imagines them ripping each other's clothes off, Aziraphale choosing lust over gentleness. He's not gentle in many of Crowley's fantasies. In the ones where buttons fly and fabric tears, Aziraphale's clothing gets utterly ruined (which he is very upset about) and Crowley is punished appropriately (which they're both _very_ happy about).

This fantasy involves no torn clothing and no punishments. Just Crowley, rubbing at himself with growing urgency. He imagines his hips moving, desperate for some kind of friction. Aziraphale notices. His hands slip under Crowley's shirt to play with his nipples; Crowley pulls his own hand away, just for a moment, to bring attention to both nipples and _fuck_. He jerks as it sends an electric jolt throughout his whole body.

"Do you like that, my dear?" asks Aziraphale, right into his ear, voice smooth as honey and hot as sin. Before Crowley can answer, Aziraphale pushes his leg between Crowley's, knee bent slightly in invitation. Its all Crowley can do to grind down, mewling pitifully as he humps against Aziraphale's thigh. In the bath, he goes back to his clit, back arching.

Maybe Aziraphale has a cock? That would be nice. Proof of his desire, hard against Crowley's hip as he searches aimlessly for relief. They're both still dressed, clothing horribly wrinkled. Its far too many layers between them.

Aziraphale lets go of Crowley abruptly, snapping his fingers and miracling Crowley's clothes away. Crowley can barely register his shock. The bookshop is usually a bit cold to preserve the books, which is fine when he's clothed, but the draft sends shivers all over a very nude Crowley.

Aziraphale simply stares at him, eyes wide as saucers, panting loud in the empty bookshop. He says, "You gorgeous thing," and _there's_ the wonder- the reverence.

Crowley presses his bare back against the shelves. Aziraphale is still completely clothed. "Please, angel," he begs. He's not quite sure what he's begging for.

Then Aziraphale rushes forward and captures Crowley's mouth in his. Crowley wraps his arms around Aziraphale's shoulders, hauling him close, fingers gripping golden curls. Aziraphale responds by shoving his hand between Crowley's legs and-

Crowley's chokes, fantasy on pause as he slips two fingers inside himself. He tries to thrust, to curl his fingers, but its not the best angle. "Fuck," he gasps, mostly in frustration, pulling his fingers out. He moves to prop his feet on the other end of the bathtub and sloshes water over the side in the process. Soon as he's able, he spreads his legs wider and presses his fingers back inside. Its a slow push, circling his fingers in, hips jerking. His jaw is dropped the whole time in a silent yell. He can feel them with every quickening breath, a slick heat that has his head lolling back, until he finally has two fingers pressed knuckle-deep inside.

Aziraphale's breath on the shell of his ear. "Dear one."

Crowley's breath catches.

Aziraphale peppers his chin in kisses. "Darling."

His eyelids flutter.

A kiss to his cheek. "Devil."

He mewls, "Angel..."

Lips brush faintly along his brow. "I love you, Crowley."

"Oh, _fuck_ ," he cries out, fingers thrusting and curling. He pulls the two out in exchange for three while his free hand scrambles for purchase on the edge of the tub.

Aziraphale holds him close, fingers working miracles inside of Crowley. His knees have long-since buckled and his body turned to jelly. Aziraphale's arm, tight around his waist, is the only thing keeping him up. Crowley can feel his orgasm approaching like a wave. Or a tsunami.

"A- Aziraphale." It comes out strangled and raw. He pulls back just enough to look into Aziraphale's eyes, dark and shimmering. " _Aziraphale_."

"Crowley," he moans. He kisses Crowley again, open-mouthed. Crowley's head lolls back on the porcelain tub. Oh, Heaven.

"I'm gonna-" His breath gets caught in his throat. "Fuck, angel, I'm... _fucking_..." Aziraphale is so warm. His fingers are so good. Crowley is going to _die_.

Crowley curls his fingers again, all three deep inside, and then does something to his clit that finally, _finally_ makes him come.

"Fucking fuck fuck _fuck_."

His orgasm pulses its way out of him, hips thrusting, fingers still buried to the knuckle. He _aches_ , like he needs more. Another orgasm, maybe. More inside him, more stimulation. Aziraphale holds him through it, never stopping his caresses. Crowley never wants him to. Crowley can barely breathe. Its too much and its not enough. He's caught in that tide for seconds. Minutes? Who the fuck is counting.

It takes a while for the pleasure to subside. It doesn't leave him fully, but it creeps back, just enough to make room for the ache to turn sideways. It goes from too much to _actually too much, that's enough_. His hips slow to a stop. He tries catching his breath, chest heaving. His whole body is a raw nerve.

Fuck, even the candles are too bright; he wiggles his free hand to blow them out. He breathes in the scent the smoke leaves behind, then lets it out, looking for some kind of control. It takes a few moments before his pulse returns to normal.

When he finally pulls his fingers out, he whimpers, the loss almost too much sensation in and of itself. Then he just... lays there.

Crowley has no idea how long he stays in the tub. Long enough to stop feeling like a rag doll, at least. He's also uncomfortably prune-y. There's probably glitter from the bath bomb in places where glitter shouldn't be, but who cares.

He's still wobbly as he clambers out, tingly in all the right spots. He slips on the wet tile and barely avoids falling flat on his arse. Or his head. He wouldn't want to explain that discorporation to Head Office.

He barely has the sense to dry off as he stumbles out of the bathroom. He drops the towel somewhere between the hallway and his bed, where he collapses into a boneless heap. Then he wriggles around a bit like a very un-sexy fish, until he's got two pillows under his head and the comforter wrapped around him like a cocoon.

Oh, bliss.

He's not masturbating in the bath again. Nope. Too much work. He shouldn't have to stand up after an orgasm for _at least_ two hours. In an ideal world, he'd sleep for a full sixteen. He still isn't quite sure if orgasms are a sleep aide or if the work to get them is just exhausting. Probably both. He makes a little noise between a grumble and a purr, rubbing his face into his pillow till he finds the perfect angle. Fuck, he's not waking up till _Monday_. Sunday is a day of rest or whatever.

He's already drifting off. As he loses his grasp on conscious thought, he considers that, in a truly ideal world, he'd be laying next to Aziraphale. He's probably wonderful to cuddle. All soft in the right places. Warm.

Crowley lets out a deep sigh, breath evening out. Cuddling Aziraphale - a nice fantasy. Maybe for another day.

He lets unconsciousness claim him.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr at [diydumpsterdiving.](https://diydumpsterdiving.tumblr.com/)


End file.
